The Billionaire’s Bride (Power & Passion #4)

Chapter 1

Huh. That was an interesting twist.

Catarina Bianchi leaned against the doorframe, entirely detached.

It was almost as if she’d stumbled into some sort of a play rehearsal she had no interest in joining.

Her fiancé of six months was on the bed with another woman, their limbs tangled, their movements punctuated by overdone cries that bounced off the hotel’s sterile, cream-colored walls.

Catarina barely registered anything beyond the noise—shrill, artificial and grating.

The air in the room smelled of cheap perfume which was painfully sharp and cloying, mixing unpleasantly with the musk of sweat and other, less interesting, scents.

Despite the fact that her fiancé was on the bed with another woman, Catarina found herself more distracted by the crooked painting hanging on the opposite wall than by the spectacle in front of her.

One corner of the painting had shifted lower than the rest, and the tilt gnawed at her sense of order.

Before Catarina could fix the painting, a second woman sauntered out of the en-suite bathroom, her supposedly seductive laughter low and throaty as she took in the scene.

“That looks like fun,” the new woman purred, just before her fiancé, Matteo, always the overly eager boy, yanked the newcomer onto the bed.

The mattress gave a protesting bounce, their movements offbeat, almost farcical.

From where Catarina stood, she caught the quick roll of the first woman’s eyes, and conveniently hidden behind Matteo’s back as he shifted his attention.

Clearly, these women were well-practiced at stroking a man’s ego, making him believe he was some kind of a god in bed.

Catarina almost laughed outright, but she pressed her lips together, letting the amusement simmer behind her eyes.

Because this scene was just too crazy to be believed, Catarina slipped her phone from her purse and pressed record. The lens captured Matteo’s pale backside, limp and unremarkable, sagging with each graceless thrust. If anything, it was a study in unflattering angles.

The farce continued for several long minutes with nearly continuous fake screams layered over muffled sighs of boredom. Catarina’s camera caught everything, including the second woman’s discreet breath of relief when Matteo turned his attention away from her.

Satisfied, Catarina stopped recording, slid her phone back into her purse, and stepped out into the quieter hallway. She didn’t hurry. She didn’t even look back. The sounds behind her went on without faltering, as though her presence, or her absence, had never mattered in the slightest.

How fitting, she thought.

Six months of engagement, and this was the grand revelation: Matteo so wrapped up in his own performance that he hadn’t even noticed his fiancée standing in the doorway.

Not that she cared. If anything, the indifference settled over her like a silk shawl offering her cool comfort and exciting liberation.

Let him play god in there. She had better things to do.

Catarina didn’t stop walking until she reached the hotel’s bar.

“Scotch,” she told the bartender. “Straight.”

His eyebrows flicked upward but she wasn’t sure if that was caused by the abrupt order, the tone, or both. She didn’t care. Catarina simply watched as he poured the amber liquid into a crystal glass and slid it across the polished counter.

“Should I charge this to your room, Ms. Bianchi?” he asked.

Her gaze lingered on the drink before she looked up, attempting politeness. Then she laughed. Of course he’d charge it to her room. More accurately, to her father’s room. She didn’t have a dime to her name.

Well, not technically true. She could whip out any one of the six credit cards nestled in her wallet.

But each one carried Enrico Bianchi’s account number, not her own.

The shell-pink sheath dress, the Louboutins, the Chanel purse, the matching pearls at her ears and throat—all carefully chosen and purchased by her father.

Even her foundation shade had probably been approved by him or his staff.

It used to bother her. Now, after catching her fiancé in flagrante, it struck her as… amusing. Here she was, done up like a porcelain doll, discovering the strings of her own puppet show.

She had no money, no independence, no marketable skills.

Just a finishing school education that had taught her how to fold a linen napkin into five different shapes, manage a household staff without raising her voice, charm diplomats and mafia bosses, and—her personal favorite—how to discreetly spit grape seeds into a napkin mid-conversation without offending a soul.

None of which, unfortunately, would pay for her scotch.

“Yes, please.”

So… what now?

Catarina lifted the glass and tossed it back in one smooth swallow. The burn slid down her throat like liquid fire, and she allowed herself the smallest sigh of satisfaction. Correction: she did have one skill worth mentioning. She knew how to drink. And drink well.

Finishing school had been painfully dull, which meant Catarina and her friends had become prodigies at mixing cocktails, downing shots, and feigning angelic sobriety whenever the headmistress swept in.

Not that she was an alcoholic. Absolutely not. Ms. Cremshaw would have been horrified. “A lady,” the woman had declared at least once a week, “would never succumb to a weakness of the mind or body!”

Catarina smirked, raising a hand for a refill. With her other, she fished her phone from her purse and scrolled her contacts. A tap later, the incriminating video was on its way to Madelaine, her best friend and fellow Montmart survivor.

Let them enjoy the evening’s entertainment. She certainly had.

Out of the four of them, Madelaine had been the undisputed queen of mixing shots. She also held the record for most demerits at Montmart Academy— “The Taming School,” as Madelaine had so perfectly named it.

Catarina, on the other hand, had been labeled the most accomplished by Ms. Cremshaw. Which, in practical terms, only meant Catarina had never been caught. Hardly a badge of refinement. It was more evidence of a talent for disobeying the rules with pearls still firmly in place.

In truth, she’d been the most polished “mafia princess” the Academy had ever produced. A distinction worth bragging about at parties…though not particularly useful when it came to, say, discovering your fiancé was busy hosting a private circus act with two other women.

Funny how that little honorific didn’t stop her from feeling so cold.

In the bar’s mirror, she caught sight of the very same women as they stepped out of the elevator. Their dresses—shiny, ruched, and clinging for dear life—barely managed to cover their admittedly spectacular butts. They leaned on each other, laughing at some private joke, utterly oblivious.

Catarina raised her hand. “Another,” she told the bartender, flicking her chin toward the empty glass.

He poured quickly, about to whisk the bottle away.

“Leave it,” she ordered.

He hesitated, a rookie mistake. Catarina leveled him with the full weight of her best mafia princess glare.

The kind that said, I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with, but it isn’t a debutante in pearls.

He surrendered instantly, setting the bottle down like it might explode, then scurried off to safer customers.

Catarina tossed back the next measure, then poured herself a generous double. She held the glass up to the light, studying the fractured reflections dancing amber and gold through the liquid.

If her life looked that distorted through a glass of scotch, it was probably an accurate metaphor.

“Yes,” she sighed, and downed it in one swallow. “Definitely.”